


you bring peace to midnight

by greenforsnow



Series: Trek Bingo 2020 [1]
Category: Star Trek, Star Trek: The Original Series
Genre: Episode: s01e12 The Conscience of the King, Hurt/Comfort, Light Pining, M/M, Mind Meld, Nightmares, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Pre-Relationship, Pre-Slash, Recovery, Sehlats (Star Trek), Tarsus IV, Trauma, some mentions of potential food related issues
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-09-01
Updated: 2020-09-01
Packaged: 2021-03-06 22:55:31
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,142
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26226757
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/greenforsnow/pseuds/greenforsnow
Summary: It takes three nights after watching Kodos die for the nightmares to start.Jim struggles with the fallout of The Conscience of the King.
Relationships: James T. Kirk/Spock
Series: Trek Bingo 2020 [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1904833
Comments: 18
Kudos: 150
Collections: Star Trek Bingo Summer 2020





	you bring peace to midnight

**Author's Note:**

> Written for the "Dreams/Nightmares" square of my Trek Bingo 2020 card. Heed the tags.
> 
> Thank you to [delgaserasca](https://archiveofourown.org/users/delgaserasca/pseuds/delgaserasca) for the beta!

It takes three nights after watching Kodos die for the nightmares to start. Jim is almost relieved when he wakes from the first one, sweat plastering his hair to his forehead, his ankles caught up in the twists of his sheet. It was inevitable really— he’d spent the last three nights waiting for the ball to drop. 

He rises slowly, letting the sheets fall to the ground and disentangle from his legs. He lowers the temperature in his quarters a few degrees and then sits at his desk, head in hands. He counts ten deep breaths, allowing the panic in his gut to loosen, though the bitter taste of fear and adrenaline lingers along the edges of his tongue. He sighs, rolls his shoulders, casts a stern look at his bed, and pulls out his PADD to get a head start on the requisition forms for their upcoming stop at Starbase 65Q1. 

He doesn’t go back to sleep. He has breakfast in his quarters the next morning, forgoing the nutritional cubes for a flakey Tellaritian pastry that he’s been saving. It crumbles in his mouth, and though he knows it should taste good, it leaves him feeling empty.

“You finished the requisition forms,” Spock says in greeting, as Jim steps into the turbolift. 

“Had a bit of extra time,” Jim says with a tight smile. 

Spock raises his eyebrows in appraisal, but doesn’t say anything, and Jim is grateful for the silence on the ride up to the bridge.

Spock doesn’t say anything for the rest of alpha shift, but Jim can feel his steady gaze. He feels stiff, his body straining to recreate a state of normalcy. 

He feels Spock carefully eying his hand as he reaches out to take his second cup of coffee from Yeoman Rand. He’s careful to keep his grip relaxed after that. 

A normal night’s rest and he’ll be fine, he tells himself. He repeats it as he brushes his teeth and readies for bed. Repeats it again as he lays on top of his covers, all too aware of the bottle of blue pills Bones had given him resting on his nightstand in the corner of his vision. 

The nightmare comes swiftly. It’s only been an hour since he last looked at the chrono. 

He takes a shower - forgoes the sonic and turns the temperature up as hot as he can bear. He realizes he’s probably using up most of his water rations, but he doesn’t care. He stays there until his skin is bright and pink, and his hands are no longer shaking. 

He goes over performance reviews and engineering reports. He checks Scotty’s math by hand. It’s flawless of course, but the equations are almost complex enough to make him forget the sight of Tom’s lifeless body. 

He doesn’t sleep. 

He skips breakfast in the mess hall again. Spock is already on the bridge when he arrives, but Jim avoids looking at him. He smiles stiffly and falls into the chair. 

Bones calls him, and Jim stares at his PADD, debating whether he has the energy to fake a smile. He doesn’t, he decides. He counts the emergency rations he has stashed under the bed. Runs his fingers over the bright green wrappings. He rests his head against the wall, the thrum of the ship echoing comfortingly through his skull. He doesn’t try to sleep.

There’s an ache behind his eyes. He’s nauseated, and he can’t make the slight tremble in his hands go away if he’s not squeezing them against something firm. He still smiles. He still laughs. He collapses on his bed the minute the door shuts behind him, his boots dangling half off his feet. 

His muscles feel liquid against his mattress. His eyes flutter shut, but the moment he gives in, just for a second, a clear sharp laugh pierces through his mind, and he flinches back to consciousness. 

He enters a command for water from the food synthesizer, two degrees. It’s shockingly cold, and Jim appreciates how he can feel it make its way down his throat, leaving a cool trail in its place.

Yeoman Rand brings him dinner and a concerned look. She places another bottle of blue pills on his tray before she leaves. 

“Those are from Doctor McCoy,” she says with a look on her face that mimics the doctor’s sternest glare with an alarming degree of accuracy. 

“Thank you, Yeoman,” he says, with an air of finality.

He eats dinner slowly, and stares awhile at the bottle of pills. He picks the bottle up and turns it between his fingers. Pills won’t guarantee a night free from dreams. He drops the bottle, and it rolls across the floor and under his bed. 

He’s out of reports to write, out of material to review. There are still too many hours before the start of his next shift. He leaves his quarters. He makes it a few yards before he realizes he isn’t wearing his shoes. 

He walks slowly through the botanical labs, stopping to trail his hand over soft leaves and petals. The scent of life here is invigorating. He rubs rich, fertile soil between his fingers. He slumps in a chair behind a tree with huge, bright green fronds. He stays there, breathing in the smell of growth, until sleep threatens to overtake him.

He isn’t surprised to see Bones in his quarters when he returns. What is a surprise is the tall, lean figure of Spock, standing by his desk, hands clasped behind his back. Jim looks between the pair of them. 

“Is this an intervention?” He means to sound off-putting; instead he sounds resigned. Bones rolls his eyes. Spock’s face remains impassive. 

Bones is holding the vial of pills that had rolled under his bed. “When was the last time you got any sleep?”

Jim runs a hand through his hair. He can’t lie to Bones, but he isn’t sure of the answer. Two? Three nights ago?

“The fact you gotta think about it is answer enough,” Bones says. He leads Jim to his bed, perhaps a bit roughly. Jim collapses into the seat, despite his efforts to sit down casually. 

Spock steps forward with a hand momentarily outstretched. “You cannot perform your duties adequately without the requisite amount of sleep,” he says, in an even tone.

Bones rolls his eyes and takes Jim’s face in his hand. 

Jim hasn’t looked in the mirror, but he’s sure his eyes are red; sure that purple circles have bloomed under them, dark and heavy. 

“What he means to say is, we’re worried about you,” Bones says, dropping Jim’s face in order to give Spock a stern look, “both of us.”

“I’m fine. Just a few bad dreams,” Jim says. He rubs his hands together. Bones is staring at his face. Spock is staring at his hands.

“You’ve been through a lot the past few days. Any one of these would be enough for me to recommend time off: you were forced to encounter old trauma; your childhood friend died; you were almost killed. Not to mention the girl - Jim, I think you had real feelings for her, and she—”

Jim laughs at that, but even to his own ears it sounds brittle and empty. Bones, for all his skepticism, is still a romantic. Jim shakes his head. “The last thing I need is time off.”

“Maybe. But you do need sleep. Last time I checked your blood wasn’t green. Just take the damn pills, Jim,” Bones says as he presses the bottle into Jim’s hands.

Jim shakes his head, and tosses the bottle on the table. 

Bones looks at Spock and waits. When Spock doesn’t say anything, he throws up his hands and stands. “You’re off duty for the next day. Get some sleep. Please.” The last word is pleading. He walks out without waiting for Spock.

Jim looks up at him, and is struck by a gut-deep pang of envy. Jim’s own emotions have been running amok since Planet Q. To have any semblance of emotional control would be a luxury at this point. 

“You’ve been having nightmares,” Spock says simply. He sits down next to Jim on the bed, weight shifting the mattress so their shoulders knock together. 

“I can control my mind when I’m awake it seems, but once I fall asleep it’s like the Wild West.”

Spock gives him an appraising look, lifts one elegant eyebrow. “Surely, you do not expect to be able to control your unconscious mind.”

Jim rubs the back of his neck. “No. Yes. I can’t help but feel… as if I’m letting Kodos win.” His hand forms a fist and taps against his knee. “He's dead now, but somehow he's gained a new life in my dreams. I won’t give him that.”

Spock is quiet for a moment. He steeples his fingers and stares carefully Jim’s fist, resting now in the inches between their legs. “I may be able to assist you.” 

The words fall into the air like the first November snow. Jim looks at him with eyes he’s pretty sure are giving away too much. “How?”

“A shallow meld would allow me to induce relaxation and remove any blocks preventing you from sleeping. I would withdraw the moment your sleep cycle begins,” Spock says, in the same tone he uses to explain spatial fluctuations or unexpected readings on a tricorder, calm and assured. Jim finds himself relaxing slightly already.

Jim shifts and pulls his legs up under himself, turning to face Spock. “Okay,” he says, “and the dreams?”

“I will be here to dispel them. Jim, you are aware of what a mind meld would entail. I would not intentionally access thoughts or memories you did not wish to share—” 

“I know,” Jim interrupts. The idea of Spock violating any boundary is almost laughable. “You know I trust you.” Even as the words fall out of him, an inexorable truth woven through Jim’s whole being, he thinks of the things he keeps from Spock. A growing, searing desire deep in his gut. Affection that spreads through him like Virginia Creeper. Visions of Spock from a wholly different kind of dream - images and thoughts he tries to keep locked away, even from himself. He swallows.

Spock is watching him carefully. “I will not pry. There is, however, a simple technique,” he says. “Close your eyes. Inhale… hold… exhale. Repeat.”

Jim’s eyes shut too easily. He counts his breaths in his head. 

“Now, picture a room. Somewhere you know.”

Jim imagines his apartment in San Francisco. Stark and clean. 

“The things you wish to keep private, picture them here. Fill the room.”

Slowly, Jim lets it slip out of him. Watching Spock on the bridge. The pride and longing that could almost paralyze him. The desire to place his hand over Spock’s as they stand side by side on the observation deck. The way he’s memorized the slope of Spock’s neck. The radiant blazing joy that flares into him during simple, easy conversations between them. All of the expressions Spock makes that Jim carefully memorizes and categories. Each of the almost-smiles that he replays in his mind.

“Now walk out of the room. Shut the door.”

Jim pictures the door clicking shut. He locks it, even though Spock didn’t mention that, just to be safe. He opens his eyes and nods at Spock.

Spock removes his boots, and sits cross-legged across from Jim, who tries not to stare at Spock’s shoes, carefully placed by the edge of his bed. 

Spock raises a hand towards Jim’s face, long fingers extended and spread. 

Jim swallows. 

Spock pauses with the tips of his fingers centimeters from Jim’s skin. He can feel the distance between them, sparking with the promise of connection. 

There’s an electric sensation when Spock’s fingers finally press into his skin, and then he feels Spock’s mind enter his own. It’s like a river, bending and twisting to join with his own, restorative while his own mind feels lit and scorched with high-summer sun. 

There’s a pull, and intense longing, and Jim wishes they could stay like this forever. He feels an ember of fond amusement, one that’s not his own, but before he can investigate, he’s hit by a wave of calm. The knots in his stomach untangle. The muscles in his shoulders warm as they release their tension. He feels days of exhaustion wash over him all at once, dragging him towards sleep. 

“Don’t go,” Jim says, although he’s not sure if he says it aloud or just in his head. Both his mind and body feel heavy and clouded, like he’s not quite in a dream, but not quite awake. 

There’s the twinge of amusement again. It’s the look that Spock gets on his face when he’s humoring Jim - the slightest quirk of lips, eyes warm and open - that look, but as a feeling wrapping around him. Jim feels slightly drunk on it.

 _I will remain close by in case the nightmare returns_ , Spock says— this in Jim’s head. Jim is vaguely aware of Spock moving him, one strong arm guiding him back against his pillows, even as the other stays maintaining the meld. 

That’s not what Jim means, though. _No_ , he thinks, _stay here_. He brings his hand up to Spock’s, presses it harder against his face to show what he means. His fingers slip between Spock’s, and there’s a bright current of energy where their skin touches. Jim curls his fingers against Spock’s, enjoying the sensation. Desire swells in him, hot and insistent. But no. This isn’t right. Jim had locked that away. Spock couldn’t know. His mind is still surrounded by foggy pleasure, but a clear note of panic is growing stronger. And then there’s a jolt. He feels Spock’s mind recede suddenly. Not fully, but enough that his presence is muffled. Jim’s eyes snap open. Spock is kneeling over him. Jim’s fast enough to see the Vulcan’s face transform from something intent and open to something completely shuttered.

_Spock, what—_

_Sleep_ is all Jim hears in response, and he’s unable to stop his mind’s rush towards unconsciousness. 

He’s still on the Enterprise. Running down the hall, legs and heart racing. The air smells sharp, like phasers firing, and a deep scent of rot. His breaths are coming fast, and the air stings the back of this throat on its way into his lungs. He turns the corner, and the blaring of the red alert disappears, and he sees a flash of Tom disappearing behind a large mound of deep, green dirt, except that isn’t right because Tom is grown now, and there aren’t mounds of dirt like that on the Enterprise, they’re only on… Tarsus… no. Jim can taste the panic in his mouth. He falls to his knees hard. But the ground isn’t the clean floor of his ship, it’s soft. Jim reaches down, and grabs a handful of spoiled grain. It’s sticky between his fingers. No. He can hear Kodos’ laugh like it’s coming through the speakers on the ship but he’s outside now. No. He has to get out of here. He has to stop this.

He struggles to his feet again, prepared to run. But as he starts to take off, the landscape around him blurs. The smell dissipates, and wooden beams come to focus in front of him. A stable. He turns. It’s almost like the one near his childhood home, except there are details that are wrong. The wood is the wrong color. There are no holos mounted on the doors with images of horses. The ground is fine red sand instead of trampled mud. He turns again.

“Spock?”

“I am here,” Spock’s voice echoes around him. Jim feels the last vestiges of panic slip away as Spock approaches him.

“Where is here?” Jim walks towards one of the stable doors, and Spock falls in step next to him.

“You have often expressed the joy you felt as a child spending time in a place like this.”

Jim laughs. It feels loose in his chest. There’s a large creature behind the door. Not a horse. A bear of some kind, with sand-colored fur, and fangs. Jim takes a cautious step back, and turns to Spock.

Spock tilts his head, his brows momentarily coming together. “This is a sehlat,” he says in explanation, then pauses before adding, “I also found companionship with non-humanoid animals as a child.”

Jim laughs and steps back towards the bear - the sehlat. He reaches out a hand slowly. “So he doesn’t bite?”

“He is carnivorous, and requires a large quantity of calories daily. He bites frequently.”

Jim starts to pull his hand back.

“However, he will not harm you unless he perceives you as a threat to me.”

Jim laughs, and lets the creature sniff his hand before scratching behind its ears. 

“This is a dream,” Jim says.

“Correct,” Spock says, as he sits gracefully on a stool in the corner of the stables.

Jim kneels next to the sehlat who flops on to the ground. The weight of the sturdy creature hitting the ground throws Jim off balance, and he ends up collapsing into it. The sehlat doesn’t seem bothered, so Jim lets himself relax against its side. The fur tickles the back of his neck. 

“This is my dream?”

“Not entirely,” Spock says. “I created this as an alternative to your previous dream.” 

“This is much better. Thank you.” Jim isn’t sure he can convey the strength of his gratitude. He tries to show it in his smile. 

Spock meets his gaze. The light is low, like a late-summer evening in Riverside. The shadows it casts across Spock’s face are striking. 

“Kodos cannot gain purchase here,” Spock says in a voice that reverberates through Jim. “He cannot here, nor in the life you have lived since Tarsus. Your ship. Your crew. They are yours alone.”

“But Riley—” 

“Is safe because of your actions. You are not responsible for Kodos’ machinations. Before or now.”

Jim feels his protests slip away. He’s been told that before. He tells himself this frequently. But there’s something about the way Spock says it now, and he can _feel_ the weight of the belief behind those words. It surrounds him; supports him. It’s the first time he thinks that maybe he can start to believe it. He sinks further against the sehlat, his muscles releasing the last of their tension.

The edges of Jim’s vision start to blur.

“You are moving into slow-wave sleep,” Spock says in explanation. 

Jim wants to stay. Here with Spock. But his body feels warm and liquid. He can feel slow breaths of the sehlat beneath him. He can feel Spock’s steady presence, in his mind and by his side. He knows he is safe, and he surrenders. 

**Author's Note:**

> Title is from "Milk Thistle" by Conor Oberst


End file.
